SELLING NEBRASKAland IS OUR BUSINESS

Speak Up

NEBRASKAland invites all readers to submit their comments, suggestions, and gripes to SPEAK UP. Each month the magazine will publish as many letters as space permits. Pictures are welcome. NEBRASKAland reserves the right to edit and condense letters.— Editor.

NOSTALGIA — "For the past several years I've been an avid subscriber of NEBRASKAland. Frankly, I wasn't aware of all the recreational and scenic values Nebraska offered, and I resided there for 24 years. You are to be commended for a consistently fine publication.

"Speaking for myself, I would enjoy a series on the small towns and villages throughout the state. I think this would appeal to most emigrant Cornhuskers who, like myself, still suffer from a trace of nostalgia." —Robert A. Wenke, Los Angeles, California.

BAIT RECIPES —"I was wondering if any of your readers would send recipes for carp bait or a prepared bullhead or catfish bait to me.

"I am stationed at Offutt AFB and recently received my orders for southeast Asia, but am looking forward to my return to Nebraska to take part again in its great hunting and fishing.

"Please send any recipes to: John E. Hayes, RD 1, Wisner, Nebraska, c/o Milan B. Hayes." —John E. Hayes, Wisner.

WARM STORY —"I am writing in regard to the article, Horses, Horses, Horses, written by Lana Jacobs in the November 1968 NEBRASKAland.

"This article should warm the cockles in the hearts of any lovers of wild and domestic animals, especially horse lovers. Written by a woman gives it a motherly zest of affection to a once major reliant need, a typical soft feminine touch with romantic overtones, symbolic to a once predominantly rugged horse era.

The horse played a vital major role with man in his domestic and warfare burdens, as his source of transportation, companionship, and consolation, and in taming and settling the frontiers and maintaining and advancing the march of progress.

"Now he is being relegated by degrees to the role of obscurity through civilization's advanced mechanized stage, yet by an ironical fluke, the vital image of the horse shall remain permanently fixed, so long as exist so-called modern times' unlimited mechanized implements which are shoddily barely maintaining and fully fostering all that which early man and the horse together struggled and labored to make possible." — Americus Liberator, Valentine.

TRIP HOME —"Except for an occasional vacation trip or business trip through the Midwest, my 21 years of absence from the beauties and wonders of the Cornhusker State would have been utter 'starvation' were it not for NEBRASKAland.

"California does have numerous and varied beauties (under its smog and amid its traffic congestion) and the Pacific does offer adventure and pleasure of a sort. But Nebraska, the heart of America, offers nature at her best and in all her moods and splendor.

"It is with unending pride that I can call myself a Nebraskan. And, I'm both thankful and grateful to have been born and raised among the stalwart descendants of God-fearing pioneers who live their belief in our America, and who work diligently to keep Nebraska beautiful. You and your staff are to be commended for the important part that you are playing by telling others through NEBRASKAland of what the state really is. For me, each issue is like a trip back home!"—Kenny Baker, Harbor Creek, California.

STIMULANT?-"The South Dakota tests used in supporting the Nebraska Game Commission's theories on pesticides in the August 1968 NEBRASKAland were performed on pheasants that were in an emaciated condition. Overcrowding and an unknown disease killed many of the chicks. The highest dosage of dieldrin, 6 milligrams, produced the most severe reaction, but the program director concluded: 'Egg weight, fertility, and hatchability of eggs, as well as survival and weight gains were not reduced significantly.' "Dosages of dieldrin at the two-milligram level proved beneficial to the pheasants in many of the tests, and led the director to conclude: 'We cannot explain the increased hatchability of the two-milligram group, unless the low level of dieldrin had a slightly stimulatory effect'." — Randall Adams, Primrose.

The study reported in the August NEBRASKAland was conducted more recently and represents a different set of tests than those referred to by Mr. Adams. His source of information is obviously a paper by T. D. Atkins and R. L. hinder entitled, Effects of Dieldrin on Penned Hen Pheasants. (Copies of this paper can be obtained from the South Dakota Cooperative Wildlife Research Unit, South Dakota State University, Brookings, South Dakota 57006.) The study we reported in NEBRASKAland was carried out more recently and is scheduled to be published in the January 1969 issue of The Journal of Wildlife Management. Reprints of this paper may be obtained after that date by contacting South Dakota Co-operative Wildlife Research Unit or the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission.

The study to which Mr. Adams refers was reported to involve some emaciated birds in the first year of experimentation. The authors noted that: When first treated, the birds were in an emaciated condition, but they readily gained weight the following two weeks. However, in the second year of the study the hens were in excellent condition. Overcrowding and disease were reported among the chicks, but these conditions prevailed in both treated birds and untreated controls. Survival of chicks to eight weeks of age based on number of eggs incubated showed no significant difference between treatments. However, survival of chicks from the 4-milligram groups during both years, 1965 — 17.2 percent, 1966 — 18.6 percent, was lower than the controls and furthermore, in 1966, the 6-milligram group survival was lowest, 16.2 percent, of all groups."

Researchers did not conclude that dieldrin was beneficial to pheasants as Mr. Adams indicates. They did note an increase in hatchability of eggs laid by the two-milligram group which they could not explain unless the low level of dieldrin was slightly stimulatory, but they were unable to duplicate these results the second year of the study.

As Mr. Adams noted, fertility, hatchability, and weight of eggs, as well as chick survival and weight gain, were not reduced signficantly by treatment, but he has failed to mention the number of eggs laid.

The authors observed that: In general, it appeared that encapsulated dieldrin, at a dosage of six milligrams per pheasant per week, reduced food consumption and body weight, thus lowering the condition of the hen and impairing her ability to lay eggs."---William Baxter, Research Biologist.

QUOTA OF TERROR

FLYING IS described as hours and hours of boredom interrupted by minutes of sheer terror. My quota of terror came on the morning of November 7, 1965, when my world became a gray horror.

Ricky Broeder, my 14-year-old nephew, and I were flying from McCook, Nebraska, to my home ranch north of Ringgold when it happened. Ricky's dad had driven us to McCook to pick up my light plane after its annual check and we weren't expecting anything but a routine 60-minute flight home. Instead, we were in the air for four hours and only by luck managed to land safely at Julesburg, Colorado. Ironically, we were only scant minutes from home when near-disaster overtook us.

There was patchy fog reported over the Platte bottoms, but there was more than adequate visibility when we took off and headed north. I was orienting with landmarks and was over Ringgold when a gray blanket of fog dropped over us. It was like trying to see through cotton wool and within seconds, I was completely disoriented.

"Climb," I told myself. "Climb. Get up into the sunlight and buy time to think yourself out of this."

My plane is equipped with a two-way radio and I also had a walkie-talkie. I debated for a minute. Should I radio home and explain the situation, or remain silent and spare my wife and family a lot of worry?

"Better to call them. If I'm overdue, they'll be frantic," I decided.

I tried to raise them on the radio, but I couldn't get through. However, a neighbor, Larry Trumbull, heard my calls and advised me to turn back since the fog was hanging low and there was no ceiling. Later, Larry contacted my family.

My hope was the North Platte airport, but it was socked in. I needed ground visibility to land, so it was out. Next was McCook, or what I thought was McCook, but there wasn't any open sky and no answer to my calls. I kept on the radio, asking for weather information. When no answers came, I started "Maydaying". Ricky, on his first flight, was taking it like a trooper.

It was eerie up there, completely divorced from the familiar. It seemed we were flying in a vacuum, suspended in nothingness, and I had to fight off that curious detachment which comes when you're disoriented.

"You aren't Leland Rodewald trying to set down a plane, you're someone else watching Leland Rodewald," a little demon kept telling me. I fought down the detachment and kept heading south, Maydaying all the way.

Fortunately, my plane had plenty of gasoline, or I would have had another problem. Normally, I balance the fuel in each tank by not filling them brimful, but I topped them both off at McCook before starting out for my ranch.

Suddenly, the most welcome voice I ever heard crackled through the radio.

There's an opening in the fog, a quarter-mile square at Julesburg. Can you find it? I'll try to talk you to it."

The opening was small and I knew it would be hard to find in that limitedless shroud below, but it was my best hope. My unknown and definitely unseen friend kept encouraging me.

Fog is treacherous stuff, and I knew the opening could close in minutes. Still, all I could do was fly a search pattern and hope. Ricky helped me all he could as we criss-crossed above that opaque grayness. On the ground, my benefactor kept up a steady chatter telling me that a steady "beep, beep" through my radio would indicate the right approach. By figuring my airspeed and time of flight on each leg, he helped me orient.

Suddenly, the rent in the fog was below and I glided through it, never so glad to see the ground in my life. The prop had hardly stopped when a car drove up and a man hopped out. He had been at home when my calls came through his own two-way. He introduced himself as Bob Vincent, a Colorado farmer, experienced pilot, and member of the NEBRADO Citizens Band Radio Club. He and others keep a 24-hour monitor for such emergencies as mine.

The fog burned off in a few hours and Ricky and I flew home. That alfalfa field in front of the ranch strip never looked so good. The experience was a hairy one, but I couldn't let it get the best of me. Later that afternoon, I flew fences and windmills just for the fun of it. THE END

Roundup and What to do

AS COLD WINDS whistle across the state, Nebraskans will usher in 1969 with a full slate of both indoor and outdoor activities. One of the biggest events of the new year is the Omaha International Indoor Tennis Championship to be held in Civic Auditorium January 26 through 30. Sixteen must-be-amateur stars from throughout the world will be vying for honors and trophies as tennis enthusiasts from several states converge on Omaha to watch the racket-to-racket combats.

NEBRASKAland's Hostess of the Month, Vicki Hakanson, is on hand to give everyone the inside information on this action-packed athletic event. Miss Hakanson is qualified for her role, for she was the 1968 Sports Magazine National Campus Queen. Vicki, the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. William Hakanson of Edgar, is a senior at the University of Nebraska where she is majoring in French. During her university years she has garnered a number of honors. In 1965 she was chosen Miss Derby Day, and in 1966 was second runner-up in the Miss University Pageant. Last year, Vicki was named one of the 10 best-dressed coeds on campus and was selected as Miss Air National Guard. A member of Alpha Omicron Pi Sorority, she was fall rush chairman and is assistant pledge trainer. Her hobbies include swimming, water skiing, dancing, playing the piano, and listening to music.

Another indoor sport, basketball, will continue to dominate the indoor action as high school and college hoopsters around the state bounce their way into 1969. January 3 and 4 find holiday basketball tournaments in Omaha and Gothenburg. On January 5 Nebraskans and their visitors get a look at the professional sport when the Cincinnati Royals meet the Chicago Bulls in Omaha. The University of Nebraska roundballers host two home contests in January, meeting the University of Kansas on the 4th and Oklahoma State on the 27th. Creighton University has a pair of home games as it tangles with Providence College of Rhode Island on January 13 and Northern Illinois University from De Kalb, two weeks later.

Ice and winter are synonymous and many Nebraskans know how to enjoy "hard" water, both as participants and spectators. Omaha's professional hockey team, the Omaha Knights, have a full schedule during January. Seven home contests will be fought out on the Ak-Sar-Ben rink during the month. The Knights meet the Fort Worth Wings on the 4th, take on the Houston Apollos six days later, meet the Tulsa Oilers on January 12th and the Dallas Black Hawks on the 15th. On January 18th, the Knights host the Kansas City Blues, tangle with the Oklahoma Blazers on the 24th, and wind up the home stand with the Amarillo Wranglers on the 29th.

Thousands of other skaters will take to both indoor and outdoor ice in a less strenuous manner. Lincolnites can swirl and glide across the ice at Pershing Auditorium where public skating is scheduled from January 4 through 8. Another four days will begin on the 18th. Country dwellers need not feel slighted because a roofed-over rink is not available. They will have NEBRASKAland's myriad of lakes and ponds for their figure eights.

For those who like ice, but who are not skaters, northern pike, bluegill, walleye, trout, perch, and crappie will give them ample opportunities to enjoy solid water the cold way.

Hunters will say good-bye to pheasant and quail hunting at sundown on January 19. Squirrels will go off the shooting calendar on January 31, but rabbits will continue to be legal targets.

For those who prefer less rugged entertainment, there will be a very colorful event on January 26 when the Wacisa Indian dancers of Lincoln invade Pershing Auditorium to stage the "Vanishing American". This year some 800 Brownie, Cub, Girl, and Boy scouts will take part in the annual stage show, while more than a 100 boys and girls will work behind the scenes of this massive production. Some 16 tribes of Indians will be represented through various ceremonial and interpretative dances.

Pershing Auditorium hosts a myriad of events during January, but the Golden Gloves regional tournament on January 29 and 30 is one of the most exciting. The number of boxers will remain a mystery until the weigh-in does or does not qualify finalists from the southeast Nebraska smokers. Winners of the three-round matches will enter the Midwest tournament in Omaha in February and possibly go on to the nationals. Cultural activities run the January gamut with community concerts, playhouse productions, and exhibition shows. It's all "honest to West" fun as 1969 debuts in Nebraska, and there's more than enough to go around.

WHAT TO DO

NEW FACE FOR AN OLD FRIEND

JUST ONE SEASON of gunning can do a lot of damage to a rifle or shotgun stock, and after several years of hard use afield, that once-beautiful piece of walnut can look like a worn dart board. Refinishing the stock yourself will restore its original beauty, increase the value of your gun, and provide a few hours of relaxing work.

Refinishing is a simple operation requiring a minimum of equipment and time. However, careful work over the course of several evenings will insure a neat and professional job, and one you will be proud to take into the field next season.

Materials and methods for refinishing are almost as numerous as NEBRASKAland ringnecks, and range from the time-tested linseed oil to the new plastic finishes.

A gunsmith I know uses a very small amount of linseed on the freshly sanded stock, applies an oil-base stain on top of that, and finishes the job with a coat of lacquer or fly-rod varnish. A hunting acquaintance, who gets good results with his refinishing, uses a commercial product that requires a lot of elbow grease but produces a tough, glistening plastic finish that will take almost any abuse. Both methods give a durable, high-gloss finish after a lot of work.

But, I prefer a rather dark, semi-dull finish that is the result of the simple application of boiled linseed oil obtainable at any paint shop. This method is probably the least complicated to use and produces a finish that can be kept looking nice indefinitely with light applications of oil.

The first step is to completely remove all of the old finish. Apply varnish remover with a brush. When the surface becomes soft and gummy, work it off with a dull knife or a piece of burlap. The finish can also be scraped with a piece of glass.

If there is checkering on the stock, work varnish remover into it with a toothbrush to remove the old finish and accumulated grime. Rub the checkering with a little linseed oil and turpentine mixture to restore its natural look. Then mask if off from the rest of the stock with paper tape, so you won't sand over and destroy the checkering.

Remove shallow dents in the stock by applying a hot iron to a damp cloth laid over the offending spot. Steam swells the wood back to its original shape. Don't try to remove deep dents or gouges by sanding. You may remove too much wood. A bad gouge or scrape can sometimes be routed out and filled with plastic wood.

After the old finish is removed and the dents treated, the stock is ready for sanding. Begin with a medium paper, graduating to increasingly finer grits. Between each sanding, thoroughly wet the stock and dry it rapidly over a stove burner. This raises the little "whiskers" of wood that can be removed by the next sanding for an extremely smooth finish.

Complete the sanding with very fine steel wool that does more polishing than cutting. Don't remove too much wood in the sanding operation. The stock was originally finished and inletted to fit the butt plate, pistol-grip cap, and receiver, and if you do too much sanding the pieces won't fit properly.

With the stock prepared, begin the finish. For the first coat, apply a generous amount of linseed oil with a brush or rag, rub it in well with your palm, and set the stock aside to dry overnight.

When the first coat is thoroughly dry, apply a second light coat of oil. Work it in with your palm and allow to dry. Repeat this for three or four more light coats or until you get the color you want. More applications mean a darker finish. Be sure to rub each coat well, and allow it to dry completely before applying the next.

For a really dark finish, thin the oil with turpentine for deeper penetration. For a lighter finish, use varnish filler for a first coat to prevent penetration.

When you have the color you want, a hard-rubbed coat or two of paste wax will give added luster and protection. The quality of the end product will depend on how carefully you sanded and how well you rubbed the oil into the wood. Periodic applications of a little linseed oil and wax will keep the stock looking good for many seasons to come.

Refinishing a stock is not a difficult do-it-yourself project. If it is done correctly, you can have a beautiful stock that enhances the value and the looks of your favorite shooting iron as well as providing you some very enjoyable hours.

TO SWIM A GIANT

UNLIKE MANY man-versus-nature battles, this contest was going to be fought in a man-made impoundment. Scott Skultety, a 17-year-old lad from Omaha, would attempt to swim Lake McConaughy's 21-mile-plus length. If the young man succeeded, he would be the first to do so in Big Mac's 27-year history. The time was 7:45 a.m. Mountain Daylight Time and the date was August 6,1968.

Heavy clouds loomed in the sky and an occasional gull swooped low for a closer look as preparations got underway for the big try. The three support boats churned at low pitch as they neared the mouth of the North Platte River. The attempt would begin at the delta and as the water began to shallow, the skipper of our craft cut the motor.

"This is it," he announced. "At the present water level, this is the western end of Lake McConaughy."

Scott quietly slipped out of his sweat suit as his Westside High School swimming coach, Calvin Bentz, began stretching Scott's shoulder muscles in a series of seemingly torturous bendings of arms and neck. The coach then applied a zinc-oxide salve to the swimmer's face. A few seconds later, the boy plunged overboard to begin what many thought impossible. In the next 10 to 15 hours, Scott would be pitting his swimming skill against a body of water that is feared and respected by those who know it. Treacherous, unpredictable, and dangerous are only a few of the adjectives applied to Nebraska's biggest lake. I watched the faces of the support crew tighten in sympathetic exertion as Scott matter-of-factly set out.

The idea of swimming the length of Lake McConaughy began as a possible story for NEBRASKAland Magazine. After being assigned to the feature, I had to do research and coordinate all the details and find a swimmer. Once preliminaries were out of the way, I began an all-out search for a swimmer who could qualify and would agree to put himself to a test that no one had ever attempted.

My search for a swimmer ended with Coach Calvin Bentz who recommended Scott Skultety. Scott is an Ail-American high school swimmer, an Ail-American honorable mention polo swimmer, a certified scuba diver, state-record holder for the 100-yard backstroke, and an extremely strong distance swimmer.

August 6 was chosen for the attempt. With the definite date, preparations by the Ogallala Chamber of Commerce, which was sponsoring the attempt, went on a full-speed-ahead schedule. Water temperature was an important factor. If the water was below 65°, a special body grease would be necessary to protect Scott from overexposure. Day-to-day temperature checks were made and the day before the attempt was scheduled the lake reached 71°. Temperature worries out, the next major item was food. Pre-swim research showed that liquid-energy foods were the most commonly used, so Scott and his coach agreed to use them. A feeding pole was contrived, for once the swimmer started, he could not touch anything stable.

Safety was a prime consideration. Whether Scott mastered Lake McConaughy or not, his safety came first. After a series of heads-together sessions a complete list of safety musts was made. The list included two boats, two registered lifeguards, a reaching pole, a ring buoy with an attached line, a portable resuscitator, searchlight, physician, the coach, and a registered first-aid and rescue expert.

The Ogallala Chamber of Commerce provided everything with the exception of the physician and coach. Finding a physician was no problem. Scott's father filled this ticket, as he is the University of Nebraska College of Medicine's Shackleford Professor of Neurosurgery.

Scott wasted little time as his powerful arms and legs motored him through the rippling water. Even JANUARY, 1969 15   before we had a chance to situate the boats as we planned, the youthful Omahan had left some 200 yards of the trip behind. We soon caught up and set the boats. The majority of the crew was aboard a 20-foot pontoon craft which flanked Scott about 20 feet to the right. On board were Scott's father, his brother Chris, Coach Calvin Bentz, a lifeguard, a skipper, a trained rescue expert, a personal friend of Scott's, and myself.

A runabout flanked Scott to the left, manned by a skipper and a lifeguard. To our rear was another run about which was designated as a trouble shooter. Equipped with twin 35-horsepower motors, this craft could move across Big Mac in short order in an emergency. The trouble shooter's crew consisted of a skipper and NEBRASKAland photographer, Richard Voges.

The fascination of watching Scott as he plied the rolling water never seemed to wear off. As I watched, I recalled the night before, when we had met to iron out everything. I had made it a point to record the attitudes and expressions of the locals. It appeared that most hoped the young lad would make it, but were doubtful it could be done. Chamber of Commerce members flocked to the meeting, for they were all anxious to meet and talk with the lad who had come to swim.

The first half hour passed incredibly fast. Every one kept a close watch on Scott as he churned the water, each stroke carrying him toward the distant and unseen face of Kingsley Dam. Clouds boiled over head as though in anger that Scott was trying to de throne Big Mac's invincibility. After 50 minutes, everything seemed to be going well. Scott's coach asked how he felt, and the 6-foot, 1-inch, 189V2-pounder calmly replied, "Just fine." For the first time, I turned and looked back. Scott had left the shallow delta far behind.

Our pilots did their best to keep our course in a direct line and the lifeguards yelled at Scott when he veered too far out. We didn't want Scott to be touched or touch anything stable, but verbal contact was permitted.

An hour and a half out from the delta the waves began to get heavy. It was only normal to think the waves would hamper Scott, and possibly be the beginning of the end. However, the swimmer soon squelched these fears. Fortunately, the breeze was from the west and with a quick flutter that seemed to put him in step, Scott put the waves to work for him.

Being a backstroke ace, for which Scott was awarded a scholarship to the University of Kansas, this stroke was his favorite. It was grooved like a machine with every move perfect. For rest periods, Scott relied on the breaststroke and freestyle. He was moving steadily and still looked plenty strong. But untold thousands of rolling waves lay between him and his final goal.

Scott had been in the water for two hours when we met our first fishermen. Four early-morning anglers 16 NEBRASKAland were drift fishing directly ahead. I wondered what they thought as our miniature armada approached with one of our crew swimming, and hoped they would move to prevent a lengthy detour. Luckily, they moved out of the way. As we passed, they gazed with inquisitive eyes at our unusual flotilla.

After 2 hours and 30 minutes Scott stopped abruptly. He wanted to eat and soon an icy-cold can of liquid high energy was at his disposal. Our feeding mechanism was a 12-foot pole used for putting letters on a movie marquee. It resembled a huge pair of tweezers. The can of liquid was an exact fit, and as soon as Scott touched it, it was released. He treaded water and drank his first meal with little ado. A few minutes later, Scott tossed the empty can on board and continued his epic journey.

Time began to drag. The lake calmed and Scott quickly readjusted to Big Mac's slumberous mood. He glided onwaird, seemingly ignoring the fact that he had been swimming for nearly three hours. A short time later, our pontoon skipper got everyone's attention with:

We've come about eight miles, give or take a few rods." Our entire crew rejoiced, and Scott's father relayed the news to his son. "You have eight miles behind you now, Scott. Well over a third of the distance."

I checked the official watch and it indicated Scott had been in the water for 3 hours and 18 minutes, a rough average of 1 mile every 24 minutes. Scott switched from the powerful backstroke to freestyle and swam onward. About an hour later the tranquil silence was shattered when Scott's brother, Chris, plunged into the water. Everyone strained to have a look, but our swimmer was moving steadily on. I was the only excited one and after realizing there was no cause for alarm, I screamed, "Don't touch him!"

Scott had told me that while training for Big Mac, he would swim up to five and six miles a day, and one of the most depressing (Continued on page 52)

NEBRASKAland

SO MUCH TO SEE and so little time to see it... but see it we did. In 5 short days, we covered 1,100 miles of NEBRASKAland and visited many of the most scenic and interesting spots the state has to offer. While I have traveled my home state from time to time, I was particularly excited about this trip. Having just been crowned Miss NEBRASKAland during NEBRASKAland Days in North Platte, I was anxious to take a firsthand survey of my new domain. And, as part of my official duties, I served as hostess for this 1968 NEBRASKAland Tour.

Fellow passengers for the excursion included Secretary of State Frank Marsh, the Governor's personal representative; our host, Charlie Chace, executive secretary of the NEBRASKAland Foundation; and "tourists" from 14 different Nebraska communities.

Our exhausting itinerary began in the Capital City and included 23 scheduled stops. As the bus rolled out of Lincoln, we all eagerly looked forward to our whirlwind trip in spite of the hot July weather. This 18 NEBRASKAland would be an ideal opportunity for a then-and-now comparison of the attractions on our list. Seven years can bring about a lot of changes, and many of my fellow travelers who were aboard the first NEBRASKAland Tour in 1961 were anxious to see the many improvements.

The first notable change showed up almost immediately-Nebraska's outstanding Interstate rest areas. For those who had never had occasion to stop at one of these attractive spots, the bus wheeled into the rest area at Grand Island, since we had a scheduled stop at Grand Island's Stuhr Museum of the Prairie Pioneer.

This stretch stop not only gave us an opportunity for a close-up look at the rest area, but also a chance to visit with travelers from other states and to see one of the State Historical Society's three mobile museums. This one focused on pioneers and sod houses, while the one we saw later at Chimney Rock emphasized the Oregon Trail. Another located at the Ogallala Interchange depicted Nebraska's cattle history.

Just a few miles from the rest area, on U.S. Highway 281, is the fantastic complex of the Stuhr Museum of the Prairie Pioneer. Still a dream in 1961, Stuhr opened to the public in the summer of 1967. The ultramodern museum building highlights the 267-acre compound which will undoubtedly be one of the nation's finest tourist attractions when fully developed. It has already received considerable nationwide publicity. Much remains to be done, however, since the grounds will ultimately include a "walking time machine". Plans call for the development of such things as a pioneer town, an Indian village, a trapper's cabin, a wagontrain encampment, (Continued on page 51)

100 YEARS OF U.P.

AN IDEA to change the whole world, a dream of continental dimension that began in Nebraska, became a reality just 100 years ago. Completion of the Union Pacific Railroad and the golden spike ceremony at Promontory, Utah, May 10, 1869, united a continent and brought new development to the West.

Each rail and tie and spike meant change for Nebraska. Construction of the exciting venture began in Omaha on July 10,1865, and this sparsely-populated state felt the effects of this great enterprise from the start. Some of the influences were good, some were bad, but all contributed to Nebraska's railroading heritage. Labor was available for construction, but money and supplies were scarce since potential backers with big money couldn't see any sense in building a railroad out where nobody lived. Men who worked ahead of the rails were hindered because they had to rely on wagons to haul supplies. The crews were also troubled by Indians, and as General Grenville M. Dodge, chief engineer during U.P. construction, said, "Every mile had to be run within the range of the rifle."

But once the construction had begun, Dodge pushed it steadily toward completion. By the end of the first year only 40 miles of track had been laid, but the iron rails reached Kearney by August 1866, and North Platte by November of that same year. As the road pushed west, end-o'-track towns such as Plum Creek, now known as Lexington, North Platte, Ogallala, and Sidney sprang up to handle supplies, men, and equipment. Filled with prostitutes and gamblers, these little towns were little more than sin traps for the Irish workmen with money.

A town and a gang known as "Hell on Wheels" was among the more infamous of the profiteers. They included crews and hanger-on friends who arrived on the first train into the new end-o'-track. Instant tents and shacks sprang up as saloons, gambling houses, and other dens of iniquity. Flashy women, expensive 20 NEBRASKAland liquor, cardsharps, and other knights of the elbow did their best to strip the gandy dancers of their wages until the next pay car came in. These towns lasted only as long as track was being laid to another site. They vanished in a flash and were set up again at the next stopover. General Dodge had to call in the army to simmer the group down in the summer of 1867. Purity and piety lasted for a while, but soon Hell on Wheels was in full swing again.

The federal government granted the U.P. alternate sections of land extending back 20 miles from each side of the track, or a total of 20 sections of land for each mile of road constructed, and the U.P. promoted Nebraska land to immigrants, offering them a new life and property rights. Its flamboyant posters advertised in glowing terms and pictures the resources of the Platte Valley, and Old World settlers came by the thousands.

Writer Martha Ferguson McKeown recreates the story of her uncle and his boyhood recollections of coming to Nebraska:

"Father wrote to the Union Pacific Railroad, telling them we wanted to move west and asking for information about a place to locate where they had real good climate with an even temperature. Well, they wrote right back and sent prices. It would cost about $30 for him to go out alone. But they had a reduced rate for parties; when the time came for us all to go we could take one of them trains. But the first thing for Father to do was to come right on and get located. If he'd come clear to Grand Island, Nebraska, they'd bed and board him for a little while so he could take his pick of one of their good farms.

"And they sent Father a book that said the Union Pacific Railroad was opening up 12 million acres of the best farming, grazing, and mineral land in America... The Union Pacific had got 1,037 miles of track laid out to Grand Island. It went right into the heart of the best land in America, right into the Valley of the Platte River. Father said he didn't have to worry about the time of year we moved on account of the good weather they had year around out in Nebraska."

By 1873, the U.P. had settled 40 groups, or 2,113 families in its land grant as far west as the eastern edge of Buffalo County. During the 13 years, 1871-1883, the U.P. received an average of $4.27 for each acre sold to the land-hungry settlers.

Many newcomers to Nebraska did not settle, though. The writer and the poet found this new mode of transportation a great way to travel. On a rail trip through Nebraska in 1879, famed author Robert Louis Stevenson related his romantic feelings about the state:

"It was a world almost without a feature; an empty sky, an empty earth; front and back, the line of the railway stretched from horizon to horizon, like a cue across a billiard-board; on either hand the green plain ran till it touched the skirts of heaven. Along the track innumerable wild sunflowers bloomed in a continuous flower-bed; grazing beasts were seen upon the prairie at all degrees of distance... To one hurrying through by steam there was a certain exhilaration in this spacious vacancy, this greatness of the air, this discovery of the whole arch of heaven..."

The chief import of the Union Pacific was not always people. The railroad brought a profitable industry to the state —cattle. In 1874, the U.P. constructed a cattle pen and loading chute just west of Ogallala, and the town became the cowboys' capital. Texas drovers delivered their longhorns to this new railhead by the thousands. Earlier shipping points of the profitable trade had been Schuyler and Kearney.

As a "wild" cow town, Ogallala experienced little lawlessness — until 1877. Joel Collins, who had delivered a herd of Texas cattle to purchasers in Nebraska, and his sidekick, Sam (Continued on page 50)

ARTISTRY IN ICE

IT STARTED WITH THE ATLATL

STEALTHILY THE red men moved into position and the seemingly aimless drift of the buffalo changed as they sensed that something was happening. The pace increased as the herd moved away from the pursuers behind, toward the unseen hunters ahead. At a signal the Indians closed in. Fully frightened now, dozens then hundreds of the buffalo broke into a run. Some bolted to the sides, trying to escape the circle, but each time grim men turned them back.

There was no escape. Around and around the buffalo charged, each step increasing the fear and confusion. The air, so clean before, became rank with the smell of frightened animals and the rising dust. Stone-tipped arrows found their marks in the frantic, struggling herd as the circle of Indians grew even smaller and more intent. Hundreds of buffalo dropped and their bodies slowed the movements of those still on their feet. Some had arrow shafts protruding from their sides. Later, heavy stone hammers and axes would finish these animals off.

Of the nearly 1,000 buffalo which only moments before were grazing the grassy flatlands, all but a handful lay dead or mortally wounded. Soon the remainder of the tribe arrived and the task of skinning and butchering began. Little would go to waste. Tendons from the necks would be thongs, thread, and bowstrings. Meat was stripped off and placed on scaffolds to dry. Even the marrow of the bones would be extracted and used. Although most of the meat would be saved, there would be much feasting that night.

Plans for this hunt began when tribal scouts had spotted the herd. After general direction and herd habits were established, preparations speeded up so that all would be in readiness when the herd arrived at a suitable spot. Several hundred men would take part in the "surround". The Indians encircled the herd, slowly closing in to keep individual animals contained. When the time was ripe, the hunters moved into position. "Soldiers" appointed by the chief for their experience and cool heads gave the orders.

Such hunts were common in the Nebraska of only a few generations ago and for centuries before. The lush grasslands and rolling hills were the center of a vast empire hosting millions of buffalo. And where the buffalo roamed, the early-day hunters followed.

Armed with their homemade bows and carefully scraped shafts tipped with hand-chipped flint arrowheads, the Indians faced the ponderous buffalo with confidence born of experience. Such confidence and accomplishment with meager weapons excite present-day admiration from all who are hunters in thought and deed. Before the Indian got the gun, he combined skill with his simple weapons and a fine knowledge of game behavior and location to feed, clothe, and house his tribe.

Hunting techniques varied somewhat over the years and between tribes as the game and terrain dictated, but most of the successful methods were almost universal. If a plan did not work, it was discarded in favor of one that did. In order to survive, the tribesmen had to develop extreme patience, daring, and stealth.

Earliest man took a great step forward when he found he could overcome his intended game by conking it on the head with a rock dropped from a convenient cliff. But when a cliff wasn't handy, he needed a portable weapon that could kill or immobilize at a distance. The atlatl was the first weapon to employ more than pure muscle. It was a short stick and merely an extension of the human arm, but it allowed a hunter to add more velocity to a thrown spear. Difficult to master, the atlatl was gladly forsaken in favor of the bow when some creative fellow developed it.

Many thousands of years ago when man discovered the land bridge between Asia and North America the new continent offered much promise. What is now Nebraska would eventually become the heart of the buffalo country, the center of the largest concentrations of all the major herds. It was natural, therefore, that the early Indians in their constant pursuit of game would be Nebraskans at least part of the year. Not all buffalo hunts consisted of the surround or encirclement. The buffalo "jump" also was an effective method. About the time (Continued on page 55)

The Day of Snows and Blues

MUSCLES TIGHTENED and numb fingers started sweating with sudden excitement as blind captain, Jack Ault, whispered the wingbeat-by-wingbeat approach of the three Richardson's geese. As the geese glided into the decoys, a nerve-shattering "Now!" brought barks from three 12-gauges and a 20. The geese veered in panic, but one plummeted on the opening volley and another faltered and fell at the second fusillade.

Jack, his 13-year-old son, Steve, and George Svoboda, all of Cedar Creek, and I were opening the second half of Nebraska's 1968 split goose season on the Plattsmouth Waterfowl Management Area. Hunting on the area, located just north of Plattsmouth where the Platte River runs into the Missouri, is by reservation only, and last season 1,528 hunters applied for the 310 blind openings. Jack is a self-employed businessman while George works at a Lincoln industrial firm. Both are ardent waterfowlers while Steve is just breaking in. The Cedar Creek party didn't have a blind reserved, but before starting a day of pheasant hunting they took a chance and stopped at the area headquarters. Luckily, one reservation holder failed to show, so Jack claimed the empty blind. As associate editor of NEBRASKAland Magazine I was looking for a goose-hunting story, and at 6 a.m., I was at the headquarters trying to make some arrangements to share a blind. Thirty minutes after the invitation to share Jack's blind I was helping arrange decoys.

In the pre-hunt draw for the blind positions, Jack pulled W3, located in a winter wheatfield on the west side of the area. About 100 yards in front of the sunken pit was a cornfield and on the far side of the corn a 30-acre lake that was holding some 40,000 geese. Behind the setup were the tall river bluffs. Blind rental at Plattsmouth is $5 plus $1 per gun with occupancy limited to 4 hunters. Goose hunting on the refuge had been sporadic. In the first half of the season, gunners often went home without firing a shot.

Our two Canadas had fallen 25 minutes after legal shooting time, so we considered ourselves lucky. Now, other restless geese were circling the lake on early morning exercise flights. Their distant concerto of muted E-flat trills meant the huge community was getting set for a breakfast flight. Four geese made a wide circle over the corn and gave us a thrill before heading back to the lake.

"When they leave, will they come our way?" young Steve inquired, clutching his two-shot auto-loading 12-gauge. "I got my first pheasant, now I want my first goose."

Jack shrugged his shoulders and peered toward the lake. As if on cue, 500 snow geese lifted and headed toward our blind. Pulses quickened as the white cloud moved over the corn, its distant chatter intensifying to a shrill crescendo of "au-unke, au-unke". On and on they came, their silhouettes growing larger each second. Now, they were over the blind, their huge white wings blocking out the gray sky. A straggler lit in the decoys and I clicked off the safety on my 20-gauge.

"Patience," Jack whispered. "They'll swing by again."

Jack must have worked in a control tower the way the geese obeyed his call. About 150 yards out, they swung around and headed for us again. I was ready, 34 NEBRASKAland but Jack wasn't. Several more geese dropped into the decoys. By now, all of us had goose fever and it was rising by the second.

"This time take them," Jack said with bated breath. "Shoot your blind positions. Bob, the left, George, left middle, Steve the right, and I'll shoot my half of the middle."

The geese were directly overhead when the four of us flipped over the camouflage covering. When 500 geese are within 25 yards it seems hard to miss because the giant birds don't twist, turn, and dive like ducks. But you can miss when goose fever takes hold. I'm just an average shot and I made a common mistake. I fired at the whole flock and didn't cut a feather.

"Calm down and pick one goose," I told myself. But how do you pick 1 bird out of 500? I tried and he kept on flying. A lone goose got a late start out of the decoys and I swung on him. A "ka-boom" to my right told me I had wasted my time. The goose fell and blind W3 claimed 1 goose out of 500.

"That's what I call good shooting," George commented facetiously. "One bird out of at least 10 shots."

"With that much lead in the air, you'd think we would scratch more than one," I said, ruefully surveying our single victim.

Jack added to our misery with, "There were several easy shots in the decoys, but nobody gave them a second look. We all went for the flyers."

"I saw them flap down, but I forgot about them when it came to shooting," I admitted.

The discussion of our horrible shooting ended abruptly when Jack spotted a loner that was either confused or looking for his downed mate. In one quick move we pulled up the camouflage boards. "Let Steve try him, and we'll see if he can bag his first goose," Jack whispered.

The snow was parallel with the blind when Steve shouldered his autoloader and cut loose. The 13-year-old didn't allow enough lead, but his father's 12-gauge, loaded with Magnum 4's, swatted the bird out of the air on the backup shot. Steve's solo try had taught him a lesson. Geese are big, and look hard to miss, but their speed is deceptive. On a 25-yard crossing shot, the hunter has to swing with the bird and slap the trigger JANUARY, 1969 35   when the muzzle passes the front of the bill. Like in all wing shooting, follow-through is important if the gunner is to score.

Other geese were milling in the area, so we decided against retrieving the downed bird. It was cold and a biting wind made it even colder, but the sight of incoming snows spiraling down like giant snowflakes from the gray, hazy sky kept our minds off the cold. Two geese swung out over the corn and started toward us, but 60 yards from the blind they flapped down next to their fallen comrade. We mentally kicked ourselves for not picking up the downed bird.

A half hour passed without action and young Steve complained of cold feet. He suggested a warm-up run to retrieve the bird. We agreed, but reminded him that shooting a goose outside the blind, unless it is a cripple, is unlawful under refuge regulations. The two geese retreated when Steve stepped out. On his return the boy propped the goose up in the decoys.

Again, two geese swung off the refuge lake and headed for the blind. They started an approach, only to sit down 80 yards away. Several minutes later, six more Canadas joined them. Soon, over 50 Richardson's were to our left and ever so slowly they were walking our way. Temptation worked its way into our conversation when the birds were 65 yards out. Could we scratch a bird at that range? Jack's 12-gauge autoloader was loaded with Magnum 4's and he might be able to cripple one, but George with a 12-gauge loaded with high-base No. 5's had much less than an even chance. I didn't even want to try with my 20 even though it was loaded with 3-inch Magnums.

"They may act as decoys," Jack said as he watched the tempting targets. "If some snows come near, they may sit down in our decoys, because the two species seldom mix."

We agreed with Jack and decided to watch rather than shoot. Quietly, we watched long V's moving across the fall sky to come spiraling down once they were above the lake. Steve's cold feet got the best of him and he wanted to warm up at headquarters. Hunters are not permitted to stray away from their pits, but a red flag, raised above the blind, signals Game Commission personnel that a shooter wants to leave. Transportation to and from the blinds is provided in refuge vehicles. The boy climbed out to meet the truck and 50 Canadas flew back to the lake. Steve was our luck piece. After he left, we didn't fire a shot. By 12:30 p.m. we were hungry and cold, so with a slack in the action we headed into Plattsmouth for lunch.

Area manager Gary Drown had some bad news when we returned. Geese had been swinging over our blind for the last half hour and thousands of snows were sitting in and on the edge of the corn some 90 yards in front and to the right of our pit. It wouldn't do us any good to sit at headquarters, so we jumped into the pickup and headed toward the blind.

"Don't make any sudden moves," our driver whispered as he pulled the truck to a slow halt. "Walk close together and move very slowly. In fact, try to look like one huge person."

I climbed out of the truck in slow motion and hooked arms with Jack. Steve walked next to his dad and George a step behind us. Incoming geese were circling over the corn and the snows were talking them in. Step, pause, step, pause, keep together, step, pause. White heads poked up and looked our way, then dipped back to feeding.

"Quit shaking. You might spook the geese," Jack chuckled as we closed the gap to within 50 yards of the blind.

"I can't," I replied. "Those geese are giving me a bad case of nerves."

Step, pause, step, step, pause. The geese were still sitting tight, but their shrill voices were enough to break an eardrum. Only 10 yeards to go, but one alarmed goose could flush the whole flock.

"Take your time getting into the blind," Jack said, easing back the camouflage cover.

Steve, George, and Jack slid in, and then it was my turn to lower myself into the pit. Grabbing our shotguns we waited for the inevitable. If the geese would fly, we were ready. We didn't have to wait long. Fifty geese took off into the south wind, turned, and headed for us. They looked as big as boxcars as their long wings cleaved the air.

"Should we take a crack at these, or hold up for another group?" George asked.

"Let's take them and hope," Jack muttered. "They are going to be within easy range."

The four of us vaulted up. I pulled on a blue on my left, shot once,,knocked out a feather, and followed up with another shot. The bird trembled, hung motionless for a moment, then fell. I swung on another goose and missed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Steve smiling.

"Did anyone shoot at the blue on the right," he panted as he dug for two more shells. I had shot the one at the left, so I shook my head. "Good, I just bagged my first goose. I'm the only one who hit him," the boy beamed.

Geese were streaming out of the corn. Excitedly, I shoved three more shells into the 20 as seven geese came in from the right. Just as Jack popped up, the geese veered, and the hunter quickly covered up again.

"Too far out," he informed us. "Guess I'm catching your goose nerves, Bob."

Although geese were lumbering out of the corn, others were circling back in. Jack indicated a group coming in from the right and I saw some swinging in from the left. The geese on the right turned north out of range, but the ones on my side were still winging in. We held tight until they were in front of the blind. My first shot was short, but I got out in front with the next one, and the bird tumbled. From my side of the blind it looked as if Jack and George had each claimed a snow. The cornfield full of geese (Continued on page 55)

Backyard Observer

SINCE THE BEGINNING of time, man has conducted a never-ending quest into nature's world. This curiosity has led him to the lofty peaks of our highest mountains and to the abysmal depths of our seas. Today, there aren't many unexplored regions left. Even if there were, most of us haven't the time or the means to visit them. We can, however, explore the life forms of the environment in which we live, even if it is only our own backyard.

The backyards of suburban America are living classrooms for nature study. A lawn, though trimmed, sprayed, and mowed, hosts many forms of life, and the laws of nature — birth, life, and death, eat and be eaten —are here just as they are in any other environment.

What can you expect to see in your backyard? Its sights and sounds know no hours, for the sunrises and sunsets are just as magnificent here as anywhere. With the coming of day, it won't be unusual to see a cottontail retreating from the flower garden to spend his day under the neighbor's porch, and perhaps come evening, you will see him meandering back for his nocturnal meal.

Birds can be lured to the lawn with a bath or feeding station. The species vary with the seasons, but in most of Nebraska, robins, grackles, thrushes, sparrows, doves, and wrens are regular spring and summer guests. A winter feeding station will attract the bluejay, the brilliant cardinal, cedar waxwings, and numerous starlings to name but a few of the daily visitors.

Shrubs and trees attract many nesting birds which offer an understanding of the annual mortality within wildlife populations. A nest may start with four eggs, but only three hatch. One youngster dies in the competition for food; another falls victim to a summer storm. The lone fledging survives these early adversities to take his place in the winged kingdom and begin the cycle over again.

Most of us are well aware of damaging insects, but what about the others who do not chew trees and shrubs? One of the common and more interesting of these harmless occupants is the praying mantis. This large insect is the veritable tiger of the insect world and a very capable predator. He readily captures and devours many of the large insect pests like grasshoppers and crickets. Other common predatory insects include JANUARY, 1969 39   the diminutive ladybug that feeds on aphids found on many garden plants and the elusive dragonfly that preys heavily on mosquitos.

A keen observer soon knows that nature's food chain is everywhere in his backyard. This endless chain is the basis of all life, the cycle where plant is utilized by the plant eater, which in turn is eaten by another insect, mammal, or bird who in time may succumb to larger predators.

The termination of life is accepted by man as a physical end, but in nature's scheme it is a beginning, because there cannot be life without death in the wild world.

Your backyard course in nature study can become as broad or as specialized as you wish. You can watch the playfulness of a squirrel or the elusive watchfulness of a cottontail approaching her nest. If you care to study the minute world of insects, you can see the spinning of a web, the gathering of pollen, or the flashing brilliance of a thousand colorful wings. A backyard is a stage where dramas of life and death are endlessly acted and reacted.

Sounds are prevalent, too. The harsh singing of the cicada mingles with mournful cooing of the dove to form a great natural symphony. You may find the cheepy voice of a robin or the starlings' attempts to mimic pleasing or displeasing to your ears, but all are part of nature's fascination. If you have an inquisitive mind, an eye for color, and yearning for adventure, all can be satisfied in your own backyard.

FISHING THE DOUBLE-CHECK

AN EARLY FALL chill was stubbornly resisting the morning sun as I parked my pickup by the Ldouble-check on the canal just south of Brady, Nebraska. The water was boiling and churning as it came through the gate into the southbound channel. This is my favorite fishing spot, and since my work schedule with the Union Pacific Railroad at North Platte gives me many daylight hours to enjoy canal fishing, I spend a lot of time here. My catches include almost everything from walleye to largemouth with a lot of white bass as a bonus.

The various fingers, channels, and diversions of this man-made waterway wind across Nebraska from Lake McConaughy to Kearney. There are many smaller canals along the way that direct water north and south for irrigation. The canal forms several reservoirs on its journey that provide hydroelectric power 44 NEBRASKAland as well as some of the best fishing and outdoor recreation in the country. Fishing on the system is almost always good and in the spring and fall it can be fantastic.

I strung on my 6-pound-test monofilament through a 6V2-foot, fast-action spinning outfit and tied on a white doll fly. Dave Craig, my co-worker and fishing partner, planned to meet me around 10:30 a.m. to give the walleye a real tussle. Just two days earlier at this same spot I had tied into six walleye averaging about five pounds apiece along with a stringer of white bass. I knew my luck wasn't unusual for the canal in the fall, and I hoped we could repeat that performance.

Carefully stepping onto the rocks that line the canal about 10 yards from the gate, I tossed the dolly a few feet "upstream" into the rolling water and slowly worked it in. Technique for fishing the canals varies from angler to angler. For walleye and white bass, a doll fly, worked in both the fast water and calmer eddies around the rocks near shore, is usually successful. A healthy tap was followed by an even healthier tug and I set the hook and began reeling in a shining white bass. He weighed about 12 ounces, but he would make up in eating pleasure what he lacked in stature. I was adding my fourth whitey to the stringer when Dave parked behind my pickup some 30 minutes later.

"Hey, Orv, save some for me," my friend kidded as he prepared his spinning rig, a medium-action rod and a yellow doll fly.

"You can take over here for a while," I replied. "I think I'll slip on my waders and work a squirrel-tail spinner in the other canal for some largemouth."

"Sure you will," my buddy laughed. "You'll get washed right into the Platte River if you try."

"The east gate is shut," I reminded him, "and the channel is just good wading depth."

"I forgot about that. Last time I was here, in the spring, it was running too full for any wading," Dave amended.

The double-check is simply two gates, set at right angles to each other, to control the flow of the canal coming in from the west. The south gate, which was open, controls the water entering the canal for the trip to Midway Lake, Gallagher Canyon, Johnson Lake, and points east before simply running out southeast of Kearney. The other gate controls the flow into a channel that sweeps gently north a mile or two before dumping into the Platte. A lot of black bass have been coming out of that stretch. I was thinking about the canal complex when Dave put my thoughts into words.

"You know, Orv, I've lived in North Platte all my life, yet this 'Big Ditch' continues to amaze me. There are 65 miles of canal and reservoir between Lake McConaughy and North Platte, and I don't know how many more on east from there. It's really quite a water system, fishery, and construction marvel all in one."

"Right," I agreed, "and the system picks up a lot of fish from the reservoirs and river as it moves along. The other day, three guys were fishing the tailrace at North Platte and caught seven species of fish between them: largemouth, smallmouth, white bass, a drum, crappie, walleye, and even a trout."

I headed for the bass water, and Dave, with the intention of hooking a marble eye, took over the spot I had vacated. We both prefer walleye fishing, but where Dave almost refuses to fish for anything else, I like to hook a largemouth now and then. Stepping into the shallow water below the gate, I began to work the quarter-ounce spinner. About half of my 30-foot cast was retrieved before Mr. Largemouth worked up enough interest to hit the squirrel-tail tidbit. I set the hook, cranked a couple of turns, and the bass broke the surface with a rush. You never know for sure how or why it happens, but it does. He spit that lure at me like it didn't have a hook to its name. Muttering under my breath, I vowed to get him.

Four more casts, two at each bank, resulted in nothing. The fifth attempt after my failure gave me a chance to get even. I set the hook a little harder than necessary, 1 suppose, but this one was on for keeps. He tried the spitting act again, showing himself full length above the dark green surface, but I brought him in. He wasn't what you would call a lunker, about a pound and a half, but I felt good about catching him.

The sun had won its battle with the morning chill. It warmed my face and reflected the gold-turning box elder leaves in the quiet water along the banks. It felt good as I worked the (Continued on page 56)

NOTES ON NEBRASKA FAUNA. . . MINK

A LADY who gets hysterical at the sight of a mouse will wear a mink around her neck without a qualm. Of the two, a mink is certainly more ferocious than a mouse, but of course the mink is dead, or should be, and that makes a difference. Year in and year out mink are probably the most popular of all furbearers with the feminine set, thanks to their soft and luxurious fur.

A graceful, water-loving animal, the mink, Mustela vision, is a medium-size, slender, long-bodied mammal with a close resemblance to the weasel but larger. His scientific name reflects this close relationship, since Mustela is the Latin term for weasel. Mink are found along watercourses throughout the state and are common in the Sand Hills lakes whereever marsh habitat occurs.

Males run about 20 to 28 inches in length and weigh from IV2 to 3 pounds. Females are about one-quarter smaller. Adults of both sexes are almost entirely brown and most have white chins. Occasionally, white spots are found on the throat, chest, and belly. At game farms where breeding can be controlled, certain color phases are frequently produced and marketed, often under special names.

Both males and females breed when they are a year old. They nest in cavities in stream banks, in rocks, debris, or in muskrat houses. Mating occurs in February and March and pregnancy varies from 40 to 75 days with an average of 51. After fertilization there is a short period of development, followed by a variable period of dormancy when the embryos are free in the uterus. Approximately 30 days before birth, the embryos become implanted in the uterus and complete their development.

A single annual litter of 2 to 10 young is born around the first of May. The new young have a covering of fine, light hair and are blind. Their eyes open at about five weeks and weaning starts at this time. The family stays together until late summer.

Males are great travelers and often have a home range up to five miles in diameter. The territories of different males sometimes overlap and several males may use various dens in succession. Females have a much smaller home range which may not exceed 20 acres and usually occupy one home throughout the year.

A mink is a formidable fighter and when pressed will take on animals much larger than himself. The belief that mink and other members of the weasel family suck the blood of their victims is a myth. Mink are good hunters and are excellent swimmers. They can easily capture fish.

These interesting animals are chiefly nocturnal, but often come out at dawn or dusk. When disturbed, they dodge into the nearest shelter or escape by climbing trees. When cornered, a mink will scream, spit, and hiss to frighten his opponent. A powerful musk is also a defensive mechanism.

Mink fur is beautiful, durable, and of excellent texture. Pelts are often used for coats and trimmings. The Nebraska annual average wild-mink harvest between 1960 and 1966 was 8,082. In the 1965-66 trapping season, 6,978 wild mink were taken and their pelts sold at an average of $7.86. There is some limited mink farming in Nebraska.

To be successful, a mink trapper should study the habits and nature of his quarry. Trapping manuals are aids, but observation and ability to read sign or tracks, identify a mink kill, and to recognize a trail or run are great helps. Mink traps can be set in both water and on dry land. Of the two, the water set is probably the easiest and can be made with or without bait.

Fish, rabbit, skinned muskrat, or garter snake can be used to lure the animals into the trap. Two No. 3 traps should be placed at each set and checked to make sure they work freely. Traps ought to be placed near the bank and eased into the mud, so the animal does not have to chin himself to get into them.

Two board strips arranged to funnel the animal toward the trap are often effective. Mink seem to have an affinity for narrow openings and will often explore these "tunnels". A tunnel set can be made without bait, but baiting usually increases its effectiveness.

A dry-land set is more difficult and the trap must be carefully buried or concealed with dirt, leaves, or small twigs. Sets along road bridges or culverts are often effective.

Next to beaver, trappers consider the catching of a mink a tribute to their prowess, and well they should, for the mink is far from being the easiest of furbearers to catch.

THE END

OUTDoOR RECREATION in Nebraska will get $45-million boost in the next 6 years, IF the long-range capital-improvement plan for the state gets the green light from the 1969 Unicameral. This is an ambitious but necessary undertaking, for the time is NOW if Nebraska is to continue to progress in this all-important area.

Leisure time is increasing more every year. Recent studies by the U.S. Census Bureau show that the average American spends 16 years of his lifetime in some form of recreation. This ranks third only to working and sleeping, both of which consume some 20 years.

Consequently, the clamor for more and better recreational facilities of all types continues to grow louder and louder with each passing year. These needs must be met, and the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission has produced a workable timetable for the development of outdoor recreational facilities all across the state.

While the total budgeted for these purposes tops $45 million, not all the money will come from state coffers. This figure includes federal, state, and local matching monies obtained from various sources under various programs. Funds budgeted for the next six years are for acquisition and construction within that period, for improvements on existing areas, and for 48 NEBRASKAland design and planning of projected developments. Overall, the concept of the plan is much longer range. Perhaps it will take 25 years for all of these endeavors to become realities. However, a beginning must be made, for many factors enter into the programming. This meeting of outdoor recreational demands must proceed in an orderly fashion, depending on opportunities, financing, and the needs of a specific area.

No hit-or-miss proposition, this plan is based on the comprehensive statewide outdoor-recreation plan developed to administer Nebraska's share of the federal Land and Water Conservation Fund. For planning purposes, the state is divided into 14 social-economic areas. Planning considers the social and economic impact of a project on an area as well as its needs and potentials, plus any other problems that may exist there.

Vast in scope, the six-year capital improvement plan involves developments in every part of Nebraska, although they will not all be undertaken simultaneously. Each project will be timed and scheduled on the basis of urgency, practicality, and funding to permit a smooth, assembly-line type of operation determined primarily by opportunity, need, construction conditions, and economics.

Two major objectives guided the development of this plan: one, meeting the social needs of the people in the field of outdoor recreation and two, enhancing the economic life of the state through the development of outdoor recreation and tourist trade, today the nation's third largest industry.

Naturally, some projects require a greater expenditure of money and time to plan, develop, and complete than others. Typical of such long-range programs are Indian Cave State Park in the southeast, Fort Robinson State Park in the northwest, and the concept of an Aquarama and Terrarama in the central part of Nebraska.

Still in the future, but on the planning board, the Aquarama will be located in Dawson County near Cozad and the Terrarama in Hamilton County near Aurora, both on Interstate 80. These two projects will be major attractions, but they will also have great significance to conservation because of their high educational value to Americans who travel 1-80.

They will tell the true story of land and water, the two great resources of man's environment. This nation was built on these two resources. Without adequate fresh water and our fertile land, the American civilization would perish. An abundance of these two great resources and a virile and vigorous people have made it what it is today. It is imperative that this story be told to every thinking American.

Because this need and work is of national import, the Commission believes that the major portion of the financing for the Aquarama and Terrarama should come from sources outside Nebraska. Funding of these developments is being sought through one of the major education-conservation foundations of the nation, through federal funds appropriated by Congress, or both.

The tremendous scope of the six-year plan is demonstrated by the fact that the mere listing of items involved for budgeting purposes encompasses over 150 typewritten pages. A detailed account of individual projects would be mammoth.

Typical items representing a cross section of the state include: additional developments at Ponca State Park, construction of a new fish hatchery at Grove Lake, further development of Branched Oak Lake in the Salt Valley Watershed, a new recreational area to be developed in the Platte-Colfax-Polk-Butler county area, improvements at Crystal Lake near Ayr, purchase of land for development around the proposed Angus Reservoir, and additional construction and development at Fort Kearny State Historical Park. Plans include continued development on the southwest reservoirs, including Johnson, Enders, Swanson, Medicine Creek, and Red Willow, additional development at Lake McConaughy and Ash Hollow, the construction of a wayside area on the Niobrara River, and the building of a new road to Merritt Reservoir. These are but a few of the proposals outlined in the capital improvement plan.

Another project the Commission is keeping an eye on is the proposed Papio Watershed Flood Control project. Ultimate development will, of course, hinge on appropriation of funds by Congress and construction of the reservoirs and other works by the federal government. Upon completion of the dams, however, recreational and wildlife developments must proceed as quickly as possible. The need is urgent in this densely populated part of Nebraska. It seems quite clear that recreational development can best be done by the Game and Parks Commission in much the same fashion as in the Salt Creek flood-control development.

While the Salt Creek project strained the resources of the Game Commission, the result of this all-out effort is 4,360 acres of recreational water and 9,490 acres of upland for park recreation, and wildlife grounds in one of the most populous sections of Nebraska. Nine of the ten recreation areas were developed and are maintained by the Commission. The tenth, Holmes Lake, is under the administration of the City of Lincoln.

The Omaha-Lincoln area, with its immediate environs, is the home of more than half the people in Nebraska, yet comprises only about 12 percent of the state's area. This populous region was virtually devoid of recreational water before the development of the Salt Creek project. The urgent need for this type of development near Omaha is self-evident.

NEED and FUNDS, those are the two vital factors. Without funds, it is impossible to meet the needs. The plans are made, the groundwork laid. Thus, approval of the Game and Parks Commission's six-year capital improvement plan, with its vast benefits to all Nebraska and all Nebraskans, is a vital function for the Governor of Nebraska and its Unicameral Legislature. Without their help, a plan is only a plan, nothing more.

100 YEARS OF U.P.

Bass, worked out a scheme over a corner table at the Crystal Palace. On September 19 they held up the eastbound train 20 miles west of Ogallala at Big Springs station. Not only was it the first time a U.P. train had been robbed, but the loot totaled $60,000 in twenty-dollar gold pieces.

Other difficulties confronted U.P. from 1870 to 1900. By 1893 the railroad had expanded by the addition of mail lines and branches to 7,682 miles. That same year, as a result of its early financial maneuvers, severe competition, drouth, crop failures, and the depression aftereffects of the panic of 1893, the railroad was placed in the hands of the receivers.

The property was sold November 1, 1897, to the present Union Pacific Company. Edward Henry Harriman emerged as the dominant figure in the new company's management and put the railroad on a solid financial foundation. The railroad underwent a major second building with additional new lines and repair of older tracks and bridges.

Elegance personified the new railroad around the turn of the century, for this was the grand era of railroading. Some coaches offered service equal to that of the finest hotel. Diners, sleepers, and private suites with enclosed toilets offered a new form of traveling luxury. Later, U.P. purchased General Motors' Train of Tomorrow for use on its western line. The train featured a galley-pantry and a private dining compartment with flowered wallpaper. As the supreme symbol of social success at this time, the private car served as the ultimate touch in passenger equipment.

By 1934, U.P. acquired the first streamliner in the world. It had a top speed of 110 miles an hour. By the mid-'50s diesels had replaced steam engines completely. A change in demand brought about new emphasis on freight. Today, U.P. is the only railroad operating gas turbine-electric locomotives in regular service. Twenty-six of these new engines are working with diesels to move freight quickly.

Economically, the U.P. and other railroads are essential to the country. In time of extreme need, during both World Wars, U.P. met the challenges. Transportation of troops became vital, but this was not the only concern of the railroad. The government relied heavily on freight shipments for the transport of military supplies.

This year's Centennial will be more subdued in Omaha than the 70th year celebration. In 1939, Golden Spike Days permitted Omahans to show that they remembered the railroad. The occasion was the world premiere of Cecil B. DeMille's film, Union Pacific. Railroad historian Lucius Beebe describes the not-to-be-forgotten celebration:

"Perhaps the most typical...of all American jollifications during the 19th century was the railroad celebration. However, none approached the uproar, NEBRASKAland the barrel-broaching, the oratorical hosannahs, the fireworks, transparencies, and band music, the parades, barbecues, and square dances, the slugging, nose-pasting, and falling down in alcoholic swoons of entire populaces which accompanied the railroad celebration... although many a gaudy hurrah had accompanied the Iron Horse westward in the 19th Century, it remained for Omaha in the latter 1930's to be the setting for the most epic of all railroad tumults, a civic convulsion at the memory of which a thousand elbows bend in ceremonial gesture... the Little Big Horn they depicted was nothing to the present reality of carnage. I cherish doubts if in hell there will ever be such a tumult as the final day's demented symphony orchestrated to gunfire... a golden week when there were giants abroad in the valley of the Platte."

This year Promontory will be back on the "main line" for the Centennial. The golden spike ceremony will be re-enacted at the exact site even though the nearest railroad line is now 20 miles away. Railroad officials are hoping the speaker at the May 10 reenactment will be the President of the United States.

No celebration will be held in Omaha to correspond to the one in 1939. Instead, the Union Pacific will feature the "Golden Spike Centennial Exposition Car", a traveling museum with 16 display cases and 3 physical display areas depicting the railroad's history. During the summer months the car will travel along all U.P. lines from Omaha to Los Angeles to Seattle. The special museum car will move in a train with several flat-cars, carrying exact duplicates of the two old-time golden spike locomotives used in Paramount's Union Pacific, an 1869-vintage passenger coach, an 1869 blacksmith car, and an old-time water car.

For 100 years the Union Pacific Railroad has left physical evidence of its impact on Nebraska. The reckless first days of this wild-eyed state and the young U.P. belonged together, and with age they matured into giant, inseparable partners.

NEBRASKAland U.S.A.

and more. Each will be screened from the other by the skillful use of landscaping.

By this time, our minds had turned to thoughts other than Nebraska the Beautiful - namely food. Fortunately our next stop was in St. Paul, just 23 miles away. There, we were treated by a local civic organization to a table-sagging smorgasbord. Stuffed and happy, we headed for Chalk Mine State Wayside Area, south of Scotia. Our route took us through the Loup River Valley, one of the most picturesque drives in the state.

After a brief look at the unusual Chalk Mine site, our journey took us to Fort Hartsuff, north of Elyria. Dr. and Mrs. Glen Auble of Ord, who donated the site to the Game and Parks Commission in 1961, personally briefed us on the history of the area before our arrival and then conducted our tour of the fort. Currently under development as a state-historical park, Fort Hartsuff never came under attack during its brief history as an active military installation from 1875 to 1881. It is, however, one of the few such posts where any of the actual buildings remained. When work there is completed, the post adjutant's office will serve as a reception center, the officers' quarters will house a museum, and other buildings will be restored and furnished as befits the period.

Our route then took us back to Nebraska Highway 11 and north through Burwell, home of Nebraska's Big Rodeo. We rolled onward past Swan Lake to Atkinson Lake State Recreation Area! This popular spot draws anglers, picnickers, and campers from a wide surrounding area of Nebraska as well as many tourists.

Resuming our jaunt through the Sand Hills, we were greeted 19 miles later at Spring Valley Park in Newport by mounted riders from Stuart. We stepped off the bus onto a genuine red carpet to be greeted by Mr. and Mrs. Vic Thompson, who operate Spring Valley Park. With them were some 50 other folks from Bassett, Newport, Stuart, and Valentine. They had prepared a regal feast of succulent Nebraska beef.

A minute part of the Thompson ranch situated on U. S. Highway 20, Spring Valley Park is operated as a courtesy rest stop for travelers. The Thompsons have provided travel information, picnic tables, hourly weather reports, and cold, clear water. A private fishing area adds to the charm of the park. A major attraction there is a young stand of trees from all across the United States. Started as a Centennial project, the Thompsons asked the governors of all 50 states to provide their state tree for the miniature forest. For those who use and enjoy Spring Valley Park, the only fee is a signature in the guest book.

After the steak fry, we bedded down for the night at Bassett. After breakfast in Ainsworth the next morning, we hit the trail for Valentine and Fort Niobrara National Wildlife Refuge. The picturesque beauty of Fort Falls alone made this stop well worthwhile, but cameras clicked in earnest when we spied the buffalo, elk, prairie dogs, and Texas longhorns that inhabit this fascinating area managed by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

A two-hour jaunt along scenic U.S. Highway 20 brought us to Gordon, a community that has really begun to capitalize on its vast tourism potential. Local citizens have established three museums, including a "Store of Yesterday", and developed an art gallery to display the work of Andrew Standing Soldier. Other efforts include marking the Sandoz Trail tour and the Big Foot Trail to the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. Tourists can also visit a working ranch and an Appaloosa horse ranch. Perhaps Gordon's most important endeavor, however, is the mapping of area "Well, thanks for the compliment —but he's only my bait" JANUARY, 1969 51   attractions for distribution to visitors.

Continuing along U.S. Highway 20, we arrived at the Museum of the Fur Trade, just east of Chadron. As the name implies, the museum is dedicated to depicting the rough, yet romantic, era of the trapper, and displays have been expanded since the first NEBRASKAland Tour.

Our next stop at entrancing Chadron State Park has to be one of the highlights of the trip. Surrounded by the rugged beauty of the Pine Ridge, the park has seen many changes over the past few years. A popular group camp as well as a swimming pool have been added to the already excellent facilities, which included camping, horseback riding, picnicking, fishing, and boating. The marking of a three-mile nature trail provides still another worthwhile feature.

While we wanted to linger, we had to move on to Fort Robinson, and when we got there we were glad we did. There is so much to see and to do at this picturesque and history-rich park. Here, we were entertained with a performance of "Inherit the Wind" by the Chadron Players. And, with a full day behind us, we retired to our rooms in the former troopers' quarters, now a comfortable lodge.

In the morning, the potentials of park development were outlined as we visited the already exceptional area. We also had an opportunity to see the two museums on the compound—one operated by the University of Nebraska and the other by the Nebraska State Historical Society. After this post tour, we were given the option of a jeep trip to Crow Butte or a bus ride to Toadstool Park, either of which is a worthwhile side trip. I took the Crow Butte tour.

Nearby Agate Fossil Beds National Monument was next on the agenda. One of the largest deposits of fossils in the nation, Agate was acquired in recent years by the U.S. Park Service and is currently under development. Although the quarries themselves are off limits, a trailer houses a temporary visitors' center and exhibits outlining the significance of the region. Eventual plans call for an extensive interpretative center and self-guided interpretative tour of the fossil beds.

Time passed quickly as we again headed south toward Gering. Soon, famed Scotts Bluff National Monument loomed ahead. From high atop this towering landmark, the North Platte River Valley and the eroded beauty of the Wildcat \Hills unfolded before our gaze. For those with a thirst for knowledge about the taming of the West, the monument's Oregon Trail Museum opens the door to yesterday. With the panorama of the region firmly imprinted on our minds, we retired to our motel in Scottsbluff for the night.

Arising refreshed and raring to go, our merry band struck out for the untamed terrain of Wildcat Hills State Recreation Area, 10 miles south of Gering, for a gander at this spectacular region with its buffalo, elk, and other wild creatures. Back on U.S. Highway 26, our motorized time machine took us past the historic landmarks of Oregon Trail days — Chimney Rock near Bayard, now a national historic site, and Jail and Courthouse Rocks near Bridgeport.

Rolling toward Sidney, past and present seemed to kaleidoscope as we paused to examine a new historical marker commemorating the discovery of oil in western Nebraska.

On the outskirts of Sidney is the community's newest and proudest tourism achievement, the restored Post Commander's Home of old Fort Sidney. A project of the Cheyenne County Historical Society, the museum has attracted thousands of visitors. This interest has prompted consideration of expanding the restoration to other parts of the old frontier fort.

After lunch (it seems we were eating our way across the state), we turned north toward historic Ash Hollow and Windlass Hill, east of Lewellen. Here, ruts of the westbound prairie schooners left their lasting impression in the earth. Recently acquired by the Game and Parks Commission, the area is under development to preserve it for future generations. Plans call for extensive development of Ash Hollow to portray its prehistorical and historical importance.

Just a short jaunt later, we crossed giant Kingsley Dam, which straddles the North Platte River to form Nebraska's largest reservoir and playground for water sports enthusiasts, Lake McConaughy. On the north shore of the river, we visited Keystone's intriguing twoway church. For over 50 years, this little chapel served both Protestants and Catholics. Today, it is a local shrine open to visitors by arrangements with Mrs. Bill Willey, Keystone 726-2256.

Turning now to Ogallala, Nebraska's Cowboy Capital, we got a good look at what total involvement in tourism can do for a community. We visited Boot Hill, a popular spot with travelers, and Front Street, which has evolved into an attraction of major proportions. Still on the drawing board in 1961, Front Street is a private venture that has capitalized on the romance of the town's rough-and-tumble cowboy era. Thousands of tourists jam the boardwalks of this replica of a frontier street to take in the "end-of-trail" atmosphere every season. Perhaps Front Street's biggest draw is its old-time saloon and dance hall, complete with stage show.

Our next stop was North Platte, an outstanding example of a tourism-minded city. Dedicated to its western lore and the fact that Buffalo Bill Cody made his home here, North Platte cooperated with the Game Commission in the acquisition of Cody's ranch and has undertaken the sponsorship of NEBRASKAland Days. Restoration of Cody's home has been completed and it is now open to the public as Buffalo Bill Ranch State Historical Park. It is a treasure-house of mementoes of the fabulous showman-scout's colorful career.

Our sojourn in North Platte marked our last night on the road. The morning saw us back on Interstate 80 en route to Maxwell and Fort McPherson National Cemetery. There, brave bluecoats felled in the Indian Wars rest side-by-side with soldiers of more recent conflicts. At Gothenburg, the days of the "lightning mail" became vivid reality at the original Pony Express Station in Lafayette Park.

Another side trip led us to Fort Kearny State Historical Park, still another area that has seen extensive recent development. The fort's new interpretative center opened just a month before our arrival, and the similated sod blacksmith-carpenter shop was also newly completed. The replica of the stockade, too, recalls the importance of this military post on the Platte.

At nearby Minden, we visited the brand new addition to Harold Warp's famed Pioneer Village. The expansion nearly doubled exhibit space for this exceptional and nationally-acclaimed collection of Americana.

Another new development awaited us at Red Cloud. The Catherland Tour takes visitors to some of the settings described in the author's Nebraska-inspired stories, while the Cather Museum highlights mementoes of Red Cloud's most famous daughter.

At Beatrice, we inspected Homestead National Monument, with its attractive interpretative center and audio-visual story of the pioneers. Located on the site of the nation's first homestead, a walking tour of the area will lead to the graves of that homesteader, Daniel Freeman, and his wife.

Now on the last lap of our journey, Walter Baer of Wilber briefed us on that community's annual Czech Festival. With nearly 80 percent of the population of Czech descent, such a celebration seems only logical, but considerable time and effort have gone into building it into an ethnic festival of major significance. And, as if to prove their claim to Czech ancestry, Wilber's citizens greeted us in their colorful national garb and treated us to a meal that was the perfect conclusion to our trek —duck, dumplings, sauerkraut, and kolacky.

Tired but still full of enthusiasm, we rolled back into Lincoln. I felt we had really SEEN Nebraska. And yet, there was so much that we couldn't see in just five days. I guess I'll have to make another (longer) trip on my own to discover the remaining wonders of NEBRASKAland.

TO SWIM A GIANT

factors was boredom. He was obviously bored now and Chris went in to help break the monotony. Chris asked Scott how he felt and bolstered his confidence with a brother-to-brother conference. It wasn't long before Chris dragged himself back into the craft. He was puffing hard. Even when Scott was resting and chatting, his pace was more than enough to tire the average swimmer.

After five hours of swimming, Scott coasted to a stop and wanted to eat. Big Mac was completely calm now, but it was hot. The boy swam on, but his pace was noticeably slower. Still he was leaving an impressive wake behind.

Our skipper brought new enthusiasm with the announcement that in another 52 NEBRASKAland half mile Scott would have one half of the grueling swim completed. Scott smiled and feeling more confident, he inquired about the time. Could he still meet his 10-hour goal? Pushing ahead full throttle in a splashing freestyle, his action brought a unisoned "Whoa" from his watchful father and his coach.

Scott stopped and smiled, "Coach, look at my hands. They're green and wrinkled like yours." He rolled over on his back and his arms resumed their work.

After 6 hours and 15 minutes, Scott slowed again. He was using the breaststroke more often than before. This meant trouble for the boats, because the engines couldn't idle that slowly. We managed the best we could as Scott moved on. Chris plunged in for another revival, but didn't seem to help. Scott looked plenty strong, but bored. He displayed an extreme loss of interest in the whole thing. Then Coach Bentz leaned over the rail and spoke a few words. They were simple and straight from a man who has given confidence to many record-holding swimmers.

"Relax, Scott, you can do it. Regain your strength and stretch. And let's see some elementary backstroke. Just relax and clear your mind."

Scott's pace soon picked up and he seemed to have new life. The coach smiled and whispered that his swimmer was doing well and would definitely make it. Big Mac was calm, but the young athlete had a lot of swimming yet to do, and his hopes for establishing a record could still be rubbed out if something went awry.

After 6 hours and 50 minutes of tussling with the lake, Scott stopped and yelled, "Food." The long tweezer-like feeding pole was swung into action for the third time. Sixty minutes later, Big Mac's fabled "morning glory" was getting bigger and bigger through the binoculars, but it was still faint and far away to the naked eye. My arms ached as I watched Scott's still precisioned strokes. However, he switched strokes more often now, sometimes after only a few minutes. I wondered about him and kept on hoping. Only time would tell.

Scott stopped and unethusiastically asked, "How far?"

"About five miles, son, and you've got it," replied our pontoon skipper.

"And the time?"

"Eight hours and 50 minutes."

"Then I can't make it in 10, huh?" was Scott's unanswered question.

The sun was beating hard from the west now, and hit Scott directly in the face and eyes when he swam backstroke. The zinc oxide had mostly washed away and his face was getting a good burn. Also, having decided to forego goggles, his eyes were deeply reddened.

Scott's father snowed concern as did the coach. "Where are the tweezers?" the coach asked. Someone handed him the long pole and Scott soon had a tube of salve and applied it freely to his face.

"How are your eyes feeling?"^ came from Scott's obviously concerned father.

"Oh, about like they look," Scott quipped.

A light breeze began to ripple the open water. For us it was welcome, but it posed new problems for Scott. He strained to adjust to the new surface conditions. The morning glory was now clearly in sight as our armada and swimmer neared their destination. After the youth had been in the water for 10 hours and 50 minutes our pilot reported it was only a mile and a half to the face of Kingsley Dam. He passed the message to Scott. He looked up, and kept on swimming.

Suddenly, near tragedy struck. Without notice, Lake McConaughy decided that it wasn't going to be mastered without a good fight. The southerly breeze switched quickly to the northeast and whitecaps began to pattern the lake. Waves came directly toward Scott and he definitely wasn't going to harness these choppies. With less than a mile to go, defeat looked possible.

Scott buried his head in freestyle and through trial and error investigated the best method to cope with this new situation. Several attempts proved futile. The only answer was to battle. Scott seemed angered and kicked hard. After a few minutes he cruised in a breaststroke and asked, "Am I making any headway at all?"

A loud "yes" from the entire crew seemed to encourage him. It may have been fudging, but the coach told Scott he had about a half mile to go. It might have been the coach's voice, or perhaps Scott caught a whiff of the craggy riprap, but whatever it was he put on a swimming exhibition that I never expect to see again. After swimming 21 miles and spending over 11 hours in the water, Scott stormed toward his goal. He cut through the rough water at an incredible speed and our skippers had to hit their engines for more speed. It was then that I heard a classic line from our pilot: "That boy would swim a fish right to death."

The next thing we knew, Scott grinning and laughing, had stretched out an arm and touched the face of Kingsley Dam to become the first person ever to swim the big reservoir. He had completed his epic swim in 11 hours, 24 minutes, 30 seconds. As he climbed onto the rip-rap, he was rewarded with a victory kiss from Miss Ogallala, Mona Petersen, and a cheer from the excited spectators.

Scott had truly conquered the giant lake. An escort had followed him the last 40 yards to insure a safe landing on the craggy rocks, thinking Scott might collapse, but he climbed confidently ashore. Maybe it was my imagination, but he seemed to stand a little taller as he tugged his sweat suit over his husky frame. His 21-mile-plus swim from one end of Big Mac to the other compares favorably to the 20-mile swims across the English Channel from Cape Griz Nez, France, to Dover, England.

Finally, a slight lull in the excitement surrounding Scott's feat gave me an opportunity to congratulate him. I asked the elated lad about the possibility of his record being broken and got the confident reply:

"It's my record. If it's beaten, I'll be back."

Outdoor Elsewhere

He Likes Loafing. A young Colorado lad attending Sunday School was asked by his teacher if he had studied the Bible. The boy assured the teacher that he had. Asked which of the parables he liked best, the youngster pondered, then replied, "I like the one best where everybody loafs and fishes." — Colorado

Bullhead B.O. A study made at Michigan University has shown that bullheads live in complex social communities which are established by differences in smell. The fish set up territories and communities and recognize each other based on differences of smell. When blindfolded, bullheads still know each other by distinctive odors alone. They also have social "pecking orders" with leaders, middlers, and followers. Similarly, bullheads with the sense of smell surgically removed were unable to form a community and lived together in social confusion. — Michigan

Squeeze Me. Small squeeze bottles, like those used for artificial sweeteners, are handy dispensers for dry-fly lotion. Stoppers can be easily removed for refilling. Be sure to remove or obliterate the brand label.— Argosy

Turkey Talk. About 30 years ago, wild turkeys in Oklahoma were nearly extinct. But today a flock of nearly 50,000 roams the state. Restoration of the turkey population started with 21 birds planted by the Oklahoma Department of Wildlife Conservation. — Wildlife Crusader

A Nice Cast. On a fishing trip to his favorite bass pond, a Rhode Island man carefully went through his collection of plugs. Finally he gave a battered, discarded plug to his 10-year-old son to use. The lad didn't care, as one lure was as good as another, he thought. He went about rigging up the old lure while his father worked ambitiously with his shiny new gear. Finally the boy plopped his old plug into the water, and immediately the fish attacked. When the youngster reeled in his first cast, a 3 Mi-pound largemouth hung on the front hook, and a 1%-pound smallmouth dangled from the rear. No wonder that plug was nearly worn out. — Rhode Island

Dignity Crumpled. When it comes to catching law violators, a game warden often has to use his head. But, a Pennsylvania officer went beyond the call of duty recently. He was parked at an underpass on the turnpike when a group of hunters covered a field across the road. It was opening day of the small-game season, so when a pheasant got up, one of the hunters shot it. Unfortunately, the dead bird did not fall on the ground, but smack on the head of the officer. After the warden pried his new hat from down around his ears, he charged the gunner with shooting across the highway. —Pennsylvania

Lumpy Hunter. A New York goose hunter felt pretty silly using one of his fishing rods and plugs to retrieve two Canada geese he downed on a pond in Alabama. At least he felt silly until a nearby shooter dropped a goose onto the same pond. That poor fellow didn't have his fishing gear along, so he had to swim after the goose himself, wearing boots, clothes, and all. As the water was cold, he returned to shore not only with the goose, but with an ample supply of goose pimples as well.— Alabama

That's Dry, Brother.According to a wildlife officer in Texas, some of the creeks got so low this past summer, the bass had ticks. —Arkansas Game and Fish

Fishy Blackout. The intake of the Cleveland municipal power plant water supply was jammed with a huge school of shad, cutting off the electricity for 20,000 families.— Anon.

Catfish Promotion. More catfish are raised annually in the United States than any other freshwater fish, some 35 million pounds. Fish farmers are devoting more than 20,000 acres to raising catfish in the South-Central States. In addition to these acres where catfish are raised intensively, there are thousands more where raising catfish is part of the system of crop rotation; catfish one year, rice the next. After one year's growth, catfish sell for about 50 cents apiece at the fish farms, or, after dressing and packaging, 90 cents a pound retail. Sometimes they are sold under the name of barbed trout or Rocky Mountain catfish. — The Conservationist, New York

IT STARTED WITH THE ATLATL

Columbus was setting sail, a typical buffalo jump probably was taking place right here. Certainly the jump, stampeding an entire herd over a cliff, was the most spectacular and exciting of all primitive hunts and probably the most productive.

For several days all activity centered around a suitable drop-off from a plateau to the valley or canyon below. Every available man, woman, and child carried branches and rocks to form a crude fence to help funnel the animals toward the bluff. Slowly but purposefully a buffalo herd would be hazed to the spot by the warriors behind. Then its movements were gradually speeded up by increased activity, noise, and waving of blankets at the slow-witted animals. Finally, the buffalo panicked and rushed headlong toward the brink. Animals in the lead could see the danger, but they were forced over the lip by the crush of those behind. Hundreds of buffalo were killed or crippled by the fall. These were butchered and the meat dried for the trip home.

Equally successful methods for smaller-scale hunts were devised for all game. A few buffalo could be taken by a small hunting party disguised as wolves or with some other camouflage to break up the human form. Hunters would crawl right into the herd before loosening their arrows. It worked well although there was always the danger of being gored or trampled. Calves and young cows were always selected when there was a choice because their meat and hides were superior.

The surround also worked on deer. The hunters would enclose a brushy area and keep the deer running until ready to drop, then move in for the slaughter. Snares worked well for smaller game, although even deer could be taken in them. Waterfowl were often taken by bow and arrow, but some tribes also perfected an underwater attack. Braves would use reeds to supply air while they swam underwater to the ducks where they could quietly pull them under. Often, an entire flock could be taken with these primitive snorkels.

Most tribes staged two major "sinew" or buffalo hunts each year. One was in the summer and the other in early winter when the hides were prime. Because of its importance, hunting equipment vas a matter of great pride. Most critical ere the arrowheads, which ranged from ^ mere half-inch in length to some four inches or more. Even larger articles were fashioned from flint, but these were usually of cruder design and were used for lances, knives, and axes. Bones and antlers were also formed into deadly weapons, but the stone points held special significance, for they were believed to hold "big medicine" capable of killing game even by inflicting only a minor wound. And there was some basis for the belief, for the points could cause blood poisoning and weaken the animals.

Making flint tools required many hours of work. The most common method was to break the stone into workable-size pieces and then press a deer antler against the edges. This pressure would force off a small chip, and the process was continued until the point and sides were acceptably sharp. Special methods were devised to obtain flint from quarries. Rock ledges were heated, then water was applied to "explode" the rocks into small fragments. In some tribes, there were certain members who specialized in chipping points.

Earlier points were notched near the back during the chipping so they could be tied to the arrow shaft. Sinew was wet before tying on so that upon drying, it became as tight and strong as a weld. Bows were of wood, but were often backed with a tough layer of buffalo sinew much like the modern fiber-glass laminates. Occasionally, a bow made of antler was used. Buffalo bones found with points imbedded deeply in them are proof that the bows could drive an arrow with plenty of thrust.

Everything the Indian made was of simple but durable construction. Homes were usually made of wood, earth, or hides, with some lodges measuring over 100 feet in length. Travel was quite slow in the very early days, for dogs were the only beasts of burden. The Spaniards' reintroduction of horses into the New World around 1500 A.D. eventually brought a drastic change in the Indians' way of life. This new mobility affected hunting, warfare, and agriculture.

With the horse, tribes could cover greater distances and hunt at will. But the horse brought complications, too, for increased travel brought about more contact between tribes and nations and created more conflict. Intertribal horse stealing became a primary objective, for the best mounted tribe had a marked advantage.

Still, for several hundred years things went well for the Plains people. Agriculture improved because the women had more time to devote to the field and tribes like the Omahas harvested outstanding crops from plots near the Missouri River. Beans, squash, pumpkins, sunflowers, fruits, and berries were staples. Buffalo shoulder blades became hoes and not.a single weed was allowed to grow among the cornstalks, but hunting was largely the staff of life for the primitives.

It was not easy, but the overcoming of each hardship served to strengthen the people and deepen ethnic pride. After centuries of combating nature with the most humble of tools and weapons a rich and unique heritage developed. Modern sportsmen, equipped with the finest of guns and knives, will always feel a certain afinity and respect for those early hunters who maintained the "good" life through their own patience, perseverance, and skill.

SNOWS AND BLUES

were now in the air. I fumbled in my jacket for more shells and knew my blind mates were doing the same.

Another small flock came into range and we each cracked out a pair of shots. Two more birds fell. Again, I reached into my jacket for some No. 4's as Jack shouted, "Incomers!" Before I knew it, they were over us. Jack, George, and Steve fired, but I passed. One bird fell, but no one was sure who hit it.

The four of us faced a critical problem. A 15-shell limit is tough on an average marksman, but the restriction has merit. Earlier, the refuge manager had explained that if a hunter could carry a full box of shells into the blind, he might be tempted to shoot at high fliers and spoil the gunning for other blinds. This way, a shooter has to watch his ammunition allowance and tends to make each shot count.

"Birds on the left," George yelped.

With shells running low all of us were thinking the same thing —shoot only at sure bets. The snows winged to within 30 yards. I swung on one, drew a few feathers, then saw him slammed sideways by another shot. Another bird fell to my right.

Downed birds were scattered over the green wheatfield but three were on their feet heading for the corn. Each blind has its boundary and hunters are not permitted to go beyond the stakes that define those limits. If a goose makes it to the refuge, the cornfield in this case, the red flag must be raised. Jack and Steve carried back six birds, but the other three had slipped beyond the stakes. Gary walked the corn, but the wounded birds had evidently headed for the lake. The area manager promised to try and retrieve them after shooting hours, but at the time he didn't want to spook the geese sitting on the bank of the lake.

Although we all had shells left, we had fired our last shots. We had downed 13 geese and retrieved 10, a successful hunt in anyone's book. A light snow began falling as we watched thousands of geese playing tag over the lake just before sunset.

"I share a blind near Lisco on the Platte River, but I've never had shooting like this," Jack remarked as we headed in. "Steve, you remember this day, because you may never see another like it."

Jack was speaking to all of us when he talked to Steve. I have covered several outdoor stories, but as long as I'm able to hunt, I'll always remember that day of the snows and the blues.

DOUBLE-CHECK FISHING

spinner. When fast retrieves drew a blank, I slowed them down but without success.

Wading on to a spot where the bottom fell off a foot or two, I cast back upstream, letting the lure fall off the edge into the deep water. My first retrieve was pulled up short as a scrappy largemouth fell big for the spinner. He was no acrobat, but his two pounds added welcome weight to my stringer.

In the next 30 minutes I hooked five more, and lost two of them. One, about two pounds, went into a spray-thro wing leap that really pitched my lure, but I was satisfied with my five nice bass and decided to check on Dave and have a go at the walleyes.

"How did it go, bass fisherman?" Dave chided as my waders flopped to a stop behind him.

"Not bad, but you should have seen the one that got away," I answered with as straight a face as I could muster.

"Don't tell me," he said. "I can't stand another of your fish stories."

Ignoring this obvious slur on my honesty as an angler, I shucked my boots, and traded the spinner for a white crappie-killer I've found pretty good for walleye.

"Any luck?" I questioned, taking a position a little way down the canal from him.

"Four white bass."

"It's almost 11, so maybe we'll get in to them pretty soon. I caught those six the other day around noon."

"Fall is a great time to fish the canals," Dave thought out loud. "The weather is good and the fish come out of their late-summer doldrums and start actively feeding. It's not the frantic fishing you find in spring and early summer when the fish are spawning, but I have yet to get skunked on this canal."

His soliloquy was interrupted when both of our rod tips began to dance. I guess we were thinking pretty strongly about walleye, because Dave shouted, "I've got one this time," just before I did. But there wasn't enough fight going on in the canal for either of us to have our elusive target. Two more plump white bass glittered in the midday sun as we slipped them on our stringers. We should have been satisfied, but we both lacked a feeling of success; no walleye.

We switched from white doll flies to yellow and black, crappie-killers in two or three colors, and even some spoons. The white bass loved them all and our stringers got heavier and heavier as we grew more anxious.

Dave suggested a cup of coffee from his thermos. With the dark liquid steaming in plastic cups, we gathered around the end of my pickup for a general bull session. Our talk drifted from fishing to hunting. We decided that's one of the beauties of fall in Nebraska. A sportsman can find enough good fishing and hunting to keep him busy every spare minute, but when fall comes many forget the great angling and think only of hunting. Dave and I do a lot of gunning, from grouse in September right through to the end of the pheasant season in January, but we also take advantage of the fishing every chance we get. If you live in the North Platte area the canals are so handy you can spend an hour or two in the evening, including driving time, and still have time for plenty of good fishing. Prime spots are around the gates, checks, diversions, inlets, and outlets, but almost any spot on the canal can turn out some successful hook-and-line action. But I didn't have much time to reflect on our angling blessings. Dave broke into my thoughts with:

"Well, Orv, we've been here a couple of hours and have a nice mess to show for our efforts, but I can't understand where the walleye have gone."

"Your guess is as good as mine," I replied. "We might try another section of the canal."

Our time was running out. Dave had to be at work in two hours, and now landing a walleye was becoming more of a challenge and our fine catch less and less significant.

"How about the outlet below the powerhouse at Jeffrey Reservoir? That's only 10 minutes away."

Dave's nod decided the issue. The outlet is a stretch of water that courses down a steep race below the powerhouse. It slows a little as it spreads out between towering canyon walls that form a natural channel for several hundred yards. We headed west and took our time working into the canyon, for it's a steep descent and when you're loaded with a rod and a stringer offish it can be treacherous. I'm originally from Wyoming, and this canyon with its floor of rushing green water always reminds me of a trout stream in the Rockies. But trout weren't on our minds as we reached the narrow rim of bank between the canyon wall and the water. Walleye were our only goal, and we only had about a half hour to fish before Dave had to go.

"This ought to be the place," my partner said, eyeing the eddies and back waters formed by the torrent.

"I sure hope so. I would hate to leave the canal skunked in the walleye department."

I decided to go with the white doll fly that had served so well in the past. Dave tied on a yellow maribou dolly and we started working the canal about 15 feet out, retrieving at moderate speed. Casting at the edge of the swift water, the current would carry the lure back into calmer water, thus letting us fish more area with each throw. Several minutes passed with no activity and Dave's anxious giance at

NEBRASKAland TRADING POST

OUTDOOR NEBRASKAland of the Air

DOUBLE-CHECK FISHING

his watch told me our joint efforts were about over for the day.

"Well, Orv," Dave began reluctantly, "I guess I've got to head back, walleye or not. I sure hate to give up, but ."

Before he could finish, a sharp jolt on his rod told us both that something was in the process of inhaling a doll fly under the rolling surface. A smile covered his face as Dave set the hook with a, "This is it, old buddy. That's no white bass under there."

That was obvious as his rod tip danced under the strain. I knew the fish wasn't a tackle buster, but he was easily going to be the biggest fish of the day. But visions of carp were making me think twice. At times they'll take a doll fly with the best of them.

The importance of our catching a walleye was blown all out of proportion. Here we were, two walleye fishermen of long standing with a lot of big catches to our credit, but all this was forgotten, for suddenly the successful outcome of this fishing venture hinged on that one fish. It often happens that way. It may be pride or anticipation, or maybe even an I-must-prove-myself-type of compulsion.

I was actually holding my breath until that beautiful, sail-like dorsal broke the surface, expelling any thoughts about hooked carp. I let out an audible sigh. Dave had a walleye. He added his catch to our collection as I reeled in my unaccepted offering. It was time to climb out of the canyon.

"Well, he's no Master Angler winner," my companion offered, referring to the awards made by the Nebraska Game and Parks Commission for outstanding catches. Dave has two Master Angler Awards for walleye to his credit, and I've caught several that would have qualified but I never applied for the honor. However, this one lacked about six pounds of making the eight-pound minimum.

"I've seen bigger," I replied, "but he sure looks good to me."

We climbed back to our cars and after collecting our breath at the top, we made some observations on canal fishing as we stowed our gear.

"You know, Orv, we were so intent on catching walleye, we forgot how well we did on white and black bass."

"I can't remember ever going home skunked from a canal trip," I added. "There's always something to catch and usually without much trouble."

As Dave left for work, I enjoyed another look at the beautiful canyon with its man-made river. There was a cleaning job ahead, but that's the price of a successful trip, and something I always expect after fishing the canals. Three days later, I was back at the double-check on a solo chase for wTalleye. In two hours I had my limit of eight, crowned with a seven-pound, four-ounce beauty, but catching him didn't equal the thrill we both felt when Dave landed that two-pounder. Sometimes you have to suffer a bit to enjoy fishing.

Where to go

Omaha Grain Harold Just Museum

FROM THE FIRST probe into a carload of corn to the last dicker over a sample of wheat, buying and selling grain is a sophisticated science at the Omaha Grain Exchange. Located in the heart of the Grain Belt, this cash market is one of the most efficient in the world, despite its chaotic appearance during peak trading hours.

The market, on the seventh floor of the Grain Exchange Building at 1905 Harney Street, is open from 9:30 a.m. to 1:30 p.m. every weekday. To the uninitiated, the hurried milling of 85 men on the trading floor resembles the aimless zigzagging of whirligig beetles on a NEBRASKAland pond. Telephone and ticker-tape noises add their confusion to a seemingly incomprehensible flurry of hand signals which indicate the actual buying and selling.

But this market is a space-age marvel. The peculiar concept of trading in grain was developed long before the Omaha exchange was organized in 1903. Today, it is considered one of the most efficient and most economical agencies in the country in bringing buyer and seller together.

The excitement of the trading day begins during the night when boxcars and trucks bring corn, wheat, soybeans, sorghums, oats, rye, and barley into the terminal elevators. At dawn, a crew probes each load of grain with a long, slender sampling cylinder that looks like a six-foot pencil with an eraser.

When its sample arrives at the inspection laboratory, a crew grades it on color, moisture content, foreign material, heat and odor damage, and weight. Wheat, since much of it is used for flour, goes through a colorful, two-hour chemical test in the protein lab.

Down on the trading floor the owner of a particular carload of grain sifts his fingers through a pint of his tested seed, notes its lab-given grade, and studies the huge blackboard high on the wall where a girl on a platform reads a ticker tape and constantly chalks in price changes on the Chicago and Kansas City futures markets. With all of this in mind, the seller decides whether or not to accept a buyer's bid.

All bargaining is verbal. A man's word is a firm contract on the trading floor. Members have their own special sign language to facilitate bargaining, but much business is carried on by phone and lease wire, too. Phone booths line one entire wall. Some companies lease a portion of the 17 phone-equipped tables to display their grain samples to prospective buyers. Others lease an entire table. Everyone is welcome to see this unique facet of Nebraska's business community. A call to C. L. Brennan at the exchange is all it takes to set up a visit.

Far to the west, and far from the turmoil of the busy grain market, is another unusual attraction, quiet and relaxing by contrast. It is the Harold Just Private Museum near Funk, Nebraska. Many items like rare powder flasks, antique firearms, and a quaint cigarette-and-cigar lighter seen in the old saloons of the gay 90's are extra treats, but Harold's top attraction is a 300-piece barbed-wire collection in the one-room schoolhouse behind his home. To find it, drive eight miles north of the first corner west of Funk, two miles east, three quarters of a mile north, and stop on the west side of the road.

Among the more uncommon specimens of barbed-wire fencing on display is the "cattle-warning wire". Before antibiotics, cattle often ripped themselves on the wire and died from the subsequent infection. To avoid this, pieces of wood often were interspersed between the barbs, so the cattle could see it. Harold has one 18-inch strand with the original cedar still in it. This unusual wire and many others like it tell a little-known story of the early West and that alone makes a visit to this schoolhouse museum worthwhile.